


matchhead, kindling

by chuchisushi



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Body Worship, Bottom Baze, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Force-Sensitive Chirrut Îmwe, Kinda, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon, baze gets to be the little spoon tonight, heavy on the comfort, making shit up about the force, mild possessiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-13 08:06:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9114322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuchisushi/pseuds/chuchisushi
Summary: Chirrut would have to be more than blind to miss the way Baze ignites to his touch. He would have to be dead to miss the way he burns in return.





	

**Author's Note:**

> written initially for [this](http://rogueonekink.dreamwidth.org/1084.html?thread=37180#cmt37180) sensory deprivation prompt on the rogue one kmeme, but may have gained a mind of its own and wandered off a bit. whoops,
> 
> thanks as always to noah, who gave me an encouraging, brotherly, metaphorical slap on the ass when i needed it

It's said that pictures paint a thousand words, but Chirrut thinks that there can be little as descriptive as the story that the litany of little noises he can wring out of Baze tells. It is not true, of course: each should not be compared to the other, and this stands in false dichotomy to the memory of sight he holds; this soft, private little symphony is a gift, precious, all on its own. Chirrut smiles where he's perched at the thought, shifts his weight to ride the roll of Baze attempting to unseat him, and revels in the scrape of rough-woven cloth between them, the fleeting catch of skin against skin all the more deliciously enticing for the contrast of smoothness. "Chirrut," Baze growls, and it reverberates in Chirrut's fingertips, tickles against the whorls.

"Reduced to merely my name already, Baze?" he teases in return. "And here I thought your vaunted stamina would have put on a more enticing show." Baze's chest deflates as he huffs, and then the muscles of it twitch, and Chirrut smiles even broader when he leans back just far enough to avoid the reaching grasp of the other aimed at his shoulders.

He leans back in immediately after to kiss the man, claiming the intimacy from him with his hands pressed against the scrape of the stubble and whiskers on Baze's face, with the slight catch of chapped lips against his own. Chirrut runs the tip of his nose against the lines Baze's frowns and smiles have carved into the man's face, lightly pats at one of his cheeks where his palm lingers, and allows, this time, the way Baze's hands come up to rest on his shoulders.

"My stamina," Baze says, and this close Chirrut can feel the puff of air as he speaks, feel the resonance of his words both in his palms and where he's pressed chest-to-chest with Baze, "has nothing to do with my patience. Which is, so you know, quickly running out."

"How has a man like you survived this long with such a hasty nature?" Chirrut asks, but it's facetiousness, more teasing. He knows the shapes of Baze's moods almost as well as he knows his own: has learned the swell of his anger; the quick, rough motions of his efficiency; the stillness, as close as meditation as the man cares to reach now, that he achieves when cleaning his blaster, maintaining his kit. He knows Baze's patience, too, and his stamina as well, though long journeys upon the road together and through those deep nights they share in the closest thing Baze has to faith and worship, now, reverently touching every inch of Chirrut with those hard-callused, cracked hands. Chirrut teases him, and Baze's grip goes from Chirrut's shoulders to Chirrut's waist, tugging apart the lines of his robes to bare him; it is a reversal of those mornings in which Baze helps him dress, silently armoring him in memories against the work they do to survive. Baze's thick fingers undo the last tie and Chirrut lets him push the cloth away, lets him run those broad hands over his skin all sharp edges and ragged fingernails: he is a rough man, his Baze, rough like desert scrub, rough like the grit of sand, and his roughness wears Chirrut down so soft and smooth underneath it –  

Baze cups him between his legs, though his underclothes, and Chirrut gasps with it, laughs as he rocks his hips into the shelter of those thick fingers, feeling himself swell closer to full.

"Baze the beast," Chirrut says, tipping his head to the side, focusing on the warmth, the radiance of the man beneath him, the heft, the weight of him, bright like comfort against the flex of his thighs, in the thrum of the Force. "Baze the blaster," Chirrut says softer, pushes into the other's touch and feathers kisses against Baze's face, bridges the curve of cheekbones across the crooked line of an oft-broken nose. "Baze the brutal. Baze the manhunter. Baze the hound," Chirrut says, softest of all to soothe any sting that his sharp tongue has put into the words, and he breathes in Baze's sigh and strokes his thumbs against the other's skin.

"Baze the beloved. _My_ beloved," Chirrut says, because he had risen in the small hours of the day, braving the desert cold, to tend to the dewcatchers, harvested the clearest and cleanest of their runoff water. Baze told him that the ranks of domes had shone, once, glittering like the shed carapaces of beetles. They shine no longer, are as beaten and weathered as the rest of Jedha, worn down and coated in a patina of corrosion, but they still glean water from the air and so –

(Chirrut does not tell Baze that they still shine to him. That the insects that they had been culled from had left enough of their lives in their shells to grant them the faintest persistent glow in the hush and roar of the Force, like the memory of embers. His tongue bends itself well enough to barb and play and prayer, but it stumbles on  _faith_ in a way that Baze will understand. It stills on _inevitability_.

Chirrut _moves_ instead.)

The water had gone into a container to be heated to boiling by the merciless sun, coddled after to hold the warmth until night fell again. Chirrut had brought it back to a pleasant temperature over the remains of the fire they had lit for their meal, more lavish than the norm for the pay Baze had gotten from the job he'd returned from the night before, and Chirrut had warmed the water in the coals of the flames. Risen, after, to cross to where Baze had been sitting cleaning his blaster, and bent to find the other's brow. Pressed lips to it, and smiled when Baze had leaned into the jut of his hip. Had brushed Baze's coarse hair away from his lined face.

"Wash up," Chirrut had told him. "You smell like the back end of a bantha."

"The back end of a bantha you just kissed," Baze had rumbled back, and they had remained for moments longer in mutual, warm silence.

Chirrut calls him beloved, and Baze's skin gleams damp in the fading light of the fire; and their bellies are full, and Baze is _home_ ; and Chirrut calls him beloved to remind Baze of what softness, what _good_ remained underneath the work they do to survive. His barbed tongue bends itself to sweetness. He rolls his hips into Baze’s touch and drags his fingertips down across rough skin and stubble and wrinkles just to _feel_ him, basking in the glow of life inherent to the man.

Then he slips away. Slides off of Baze, inexorably, ghosts out of his hold and lands on the pallet, grinning when Baze clutches at the wake of him. The scrape of the woven rushes against the stone they lie on shivers across the skin of Chirrut's knees, only the threadbare softness of their blankets protecting him, but he doesn't mind it. Shuffles to where he'd left the oil, laughing at Baze the entire while, the other man grasping at him to impede his progress, the both of them half-wrestling with the clasp of a rough hand against Chirrut's thigh, an arm around his waist, a hairy calf looped about his ankle; he and Baze scuffle, all warm sliding skin against skin against cloth and, underneath, the bones of rushes against stone, and Baze insults him throughout, calling him all sorts of well-worn names. Chirrut sprawls underneath Baze, felled, but closes his hand about the little carved jar; he twists where he lies with a triumphant cry to hold it up like a prize, heedless of the way his robes are all torqued about them both, of the way Baze is half-crushing him. Chirrut can _feel_ Baze smiling at him, sunshine humming across his heartstrings, and that only makes Chirrut’s joy swell brighter.

"Bested once more! Are you losing your touch, old man?" Chirrut quips, then splutters when Baze digs in fingertips against his ribs, dragging them down mercilessly, making Chirrut nearly drop the jar.

"Old? And of the two of us, who is the one who pretends to be frail and doddering to elicit the pity of passerby for coin?" Baze retorts. He worms his hands underneath Chirrut's open clothes and peels them off of him; Chirrut sucks in a breath at the rush of cooler air, arching up instinctively for Baze's warmth. "Old. Bah." Baze bends himself to kiss Chirrut openmouthed, hungry with it, demanding, and Chirrut lets him have his way with his mouth, chapped lips and hot tongue and the edges of Baze's teeth catching at Chirrut's lower lip, tugging. Baze kisses him until he throbs with it, until he's tender with sensation, his own heartbeat refracting plush, and Chirrut exhales when they part to breathe, tilts his head just enough to slot in with Baze, the tip of his nose pressed in against one cheekbone. Chirrut pets along the length of Baze's spine, stroking down across heavy muscle earned through the work they do to survive and, before, how they had lived in Jedha, pets once and then withdraws just enough to unscrew the lid to the jar. Dips his fingers inside.

The oil glows, too, to the part of him that listens to the Force; like the dewcatchers, there is a faintness preserved here. It is a dim thing, merely the memory of what once was, diluted down even further by the other materials mixed into the seed oil to make it coagulate solid, but it collects on Chirrut's fingers like the whisper of a sunbeam, melts slowly with the heat of their bodies into a thin skin of luminescence. Chirrut sets the jar aside, far enough away it won't go flying if he and Baze end up more enthusiastically tangled, and then Chirrut skims the backs of the knuckles of his now-freed hand back up the length of Baze's spine. Neither speak, even Chirrut silent for once as he lets his hand drop back down to the breadth of the small of Baze's back, and this time his fingers splay wide as he braces Baze, pushing into the muscle and fat and heavy bones of the other as Baze shifts his weight forwards and then back; they move in tandem, synchronized like dual stars even in this, as Chirrut sits up, as Baze settles himself in his lap, kneels with his hips cradled in Chirrut's own. They press close, and like this Chirrut can touch like breathing, contact as easy and instinctive as air, and Chirrut pets once more down the length of Baze's spine where he's folded himself to fit, relishing the warmth of the man, before delicately sliding oil-slick fingers further down.

Baze grunts and then breathes out not quite a gasp. He's warm, his Baze, muscle thrumming with life, but he is even warmer here in the valley of his ass, and Chirrut hums satisfaction as he rubs slick fingers against the soft furl of his Baze, damp yet from where he'd washed in anticipation of him, teases with his hand instead of his voice. He rubs – back and forth, back and forth – until Baze is shifting with it as well, chasing after that brief touch in little greedy rolls of his hips, and Chirrut grins up at Baze and murmurs, "An impatient bantha as well as a smelly one."

Baze exhales, the sound all mixed with a disgruntled _tsk_ , and returns, "Before the stars die, Chirrut," as he fumbles clumsy across Chirrut's body, finding his way between them to close a broad, rough hand about Chirrut's length.

Chirrut gasps with it, startled; he had been too distracted by the echoes of Baze's touches on him, so unlike his usual straightforward attacks that – ah. The fire. Of course. It has been enough time for the embers to die. They’re both in the same dark, then, and Chirrut groans and automatically tries to push up into Baze’s grip only to be foiled by the pressure of Baze’s weight. Chirrut laughs at it, at his own impatience, arches his spine to press them as close together as they can be, thrilling at the smooth-wet glide of his foreskin over his glans, the soft scrape of Baze's calluses slipping up and down his length as the other tries to be careful, so careful, the way Baze's chest hair rasps against his skin; Chirrut tangles his other hand in Baze's wild braids and _oh_ , that too is a heady texture to add, strands stinging at his knuckles. Baze tilts his face up for a kiss with a touch at his jaw, and Chirrut's eyes fall closed and the Force thrums at the back of his teeth like the reverberations of the wordless rumble Baze feeds him. He rewards Baze for it with the push of a finger into him, but it's him that moans into the contact of their lips, because Baze is soft and warm and even hotter inside; Baze just breathes out _hard_ and rocks back into Chirrut’s touch, his hand momentarily stilling on his length.

"Baze," Chirrut says, and it's almost a whine, a gentle desperation that gnaws at the walls of his belly. Baze doesn't answer him with words, just presses back harder into their kiss, an edge now to it that makes the small beast feeding off of the heat in Chirrut's abdomen snarl lowly and bite harder. Chirrut tightens his grip in Baze's hair, rolls his hips up as much as he can into Baze's touch, skin sliding against skin, and the thrum of Baze's eagerness, the little sun of his life force swells like dawn, barely leashed by his skin in Chirrut's senses.

Baze splits his lower lip when Chirrut pushes another finger into the heat of him; Chirrut tastes iron and feeds the tang of it back to his Baze, who actually groans, all rumbles like the earth shaking underneath Chirrut's fingers and mouth and the press of skin to skin. It makes Chirrut's pulse sing, the rhythm of it roaring in his ears and refracting shaky-light in his limbs; he breaks their kiss to lick and nip across Baze's mouth, up to the scar that crosses his cheek, and down to his ear, his neck. Baze breathes something indistinct, nonsense, Chirrut's name, and that too thrums against Chirrut's skin. Chirrut pushes his fingers further into Baze at it, all oil-slick and gliding, and Baze grabs at Chirrut's waist, hip with his free hand, squeezing down on muscle and bone; Chirrut rolls into it and the clasp of Baze's fingers about his length, and _laughs_.

"Ass," Baze grunts at him, tips his head fractionally to the side as Chirrut noses into the softest hollows of his throat. When Chirrut nips, Baze pinches him, and Chirrut muffles his squeak in his skin. He counterattacks by spreading the fingers he has in the other man, Baze rocking back into the burn of it, and Chirrut bares his teeth, runs the sharp, hard edges of them over the marks he'd left on Baze, returns to Baze's mouth, and bites in retaliation for the fading taste of blood between them, gives Baze another finger. Perhaps it's too-quick too-much (Baze is tight, so tight, around him, and so hot inside, and his pulse hammers in rattling counterpoint to Chirrut's against his skin, all lit up from within), but Baze fucks himself on Chirrut's fingers all unsteady huffs of air between them that make Chirrut let go of Baze's hair to slide the palm of his hand over Baze's open mouth. Baze licks it, because he's _terrible_ , and Chirrut can feel his mouth bend to a grin, but he wraps his lips around Chirrut’s fingers after and sucks on them, all soft tongue and suction that has Chirrut restlessly shifting his weight where he sits, moaning; the texture of the pallet and sheets, the bones of rushes and the stone underneath scrape against his skin, and Chirrut whines, breath hitching in his chest. Chirrut stills, quivering, because there is the livid heat of Baze's life against him, parsecs and parsecs of scarred, beloved skin, the grip of Baze's hand pressing bruises into the arch of his hip – Baze’s hand all rough calluses and careful edges push-pulling at Chirrut’s cock and the slick slide of Baze’s mouth on the fingers of Chirrut’s hand, gentle, lewd pressure, _showing off_ – the wet clench of Baze, throbbing against Chirrut, both around his hand and in a line pressed hot, insistent, against Chirrut’s belly – Chirrut’s own _want_ and the thunder of his pulse and the gentlest caress of Baze’s exhalation and Baze’s heft and Baze’s weight and Baze’s scent and Baze, Baze, _Baze_ –

Baze pulls off of his fingers, both above and below when he shifts his weight, releases Chirrut. He leans forward, down, and Chirrut lets him close, lets go of Baze, lets the other cup his face and press his forehead to his. They still, and Baze just breathes, silent, and Chirrut lets his eyes slip closed, focuses on that point of contact between them, syncs his inhalations to Baze's, and gathers up his control once more. He breathes out and Baze breathes in and his hands are so gentle on Chirrut's skin, careful of his calluses, and Chirrut bites his own bottom lip at the swell of emotion that rises in his chest, this incredible, raw tenderness that bleeds thanks for allowing this, for allowing he and Baze to meet, for allowing them to share intimacy and space without pity, without rancor, wordlessly or squabbling in turn. Baze's hands are rough and gentle, so gentle, and his forehead, furrowed with the echoes of the pains and joys of a life well-lived, presses insistent against Chirrut's, and they still so for the length of several heartbeats, sharing the same air, until Chirrut breathes in and holds it.

Then he plants the heels of his hands on Baze's shoulders and pushes.

Baze goes – yet only after pressing a gentle kiss to Chirrut’s skin – but Baze goes, sliding out of Chirrut’s lap and back onto the pallet. The absence of his hands leave phantoms of heat on Chirrut's body, the widening cold of the void of where he'd been making gooseflesh rise all up on Chirrut's skin. Chirrut doesn't linger long over the sensation; instead, he shifts to kneel, finding the jar of oil where he'd left it, and chases after Baze, crowding him until Baze's legs are looped once more over Chirrut's hips and Baze is propped up on his elbows, chest-to-chest with Chirrut. He's smiling, Chirrut can tell, and Chirrut makes a face at him despite the darkness, despite how Baze won't be able to see it, shifts to set the jar down, presses back into Baze without ceremony; the muscle is soft under his touch (despite the tension of anticipation Chirrut can feel stringing itself tighter in the rest of the man), and Chirrut can't resist curving his digits just _so_ and finding that place inside Baze that makes the other gasp and curse; there are rustles of fabric as Baze fists their blankets, clenching rippling inside with pleasure as Chirrut rolls his fingertips. Baze groans, a faint undertone almost like a whine chasing the noise, and the energy of Baze's life, the pressure of him in the Force, like an afternoon spent basking in the sun, flares. Chirrut pushes in, pulls out, spreads three fingers in Baze gently, inquisitively, teasing, and then removes them entirely when Baze makes a noise caught halfway between a laugh and a sob and a growl. " _Chirrut_ ," Baze says, and Chirrut slicks up his own cock, runs his palms up the lengths of Baze’s thighs, and presses himself in.

Baze had been hot against his fingers, but it is nothing in comparison to Baze around his length, an almost blinding, all-consuming pleasure that _yanks_ at Chirrut’s senses, that _demands_ his attention. He’s willing, more than willing, to give it. His focus narrows, resettles, and the rest of the world – the susurrus of the wind outside, the far-distant sounds of the rest of the city, the glittering web half-felt of what life that Chirrut can sense – falls away, leaving just him with his skin hot and too-tight over the inferno of his bones, with liquid pitch filling the hollows of his hips, with his hands splayed against muscle fiber and hair, and Baze beneath him, about him, with his fingers clenched into fists around their blankets, with his breaths coming quick and close and short, making his chest swell and contract. He’s beautiful, beautiful and beloved, his Baze, and Chirrut presses in until he’s sheathed to the quick, barely lingering for a second at the base before starting his incremental pull back out. He fucks Baze slow and inexorable, steady counterpoint to the thunder of Baze’s pulse in his femoral artery, hammering underneath the pad of Chirrut’s thumb; it betrays Baze’s excitement, his desire, belays the natural stoicism of his composure. It makes Chirrut thrill to it, all these little secrets held in Baze’s body, all the little reactions just for him, and Chirrut increases his pace little by little until there’s the tactile slap of skin against skin when Baze links his ankles at the small of Chirrut’s spine, pulling him _back_ every time Baze feels that he’s strayed too far from the clutch of his body.

Chirrut wants to linger, on some level, because this is worship in a way for him as well, reaffirmation of the years of blood and laughter and pain they’d split and shared between them, but his body knows Baze’s too well, is too enamored by the way Baze flexes and billows underneath him; Chirrut runs his hands up and down Baze’s body (scars and sweat and muscle, bone and breath and stubbornness) and revels in it even as he cants his hips, his next thrusts striking Baze in the tenderest part of him, scraping against his inner walls, and it makes Baze _moan_ , hair and cloth rustling when he throws his head back; Chirrut leans in, over him, presses feverish kisses against that open mouth, and Baze clutches at his shorn scalp, his neck, his shoulders, ragged nails sometimes scoring little threadlike cuts into Chirrut’s skin. He doesn’t mind them, revels in their small sting when sweat drips into them, because it is affirmation, too, that he is _alive_ , that they both live despite the years and the Empire and the work they do to survive, and it makes Chirrut splay one hand open over where Baze’s heart thrums in his chest, anchor the other at the base of Baze’s neck, the pad of his thumb pressed against his carotid artery and a few of the marks he’d left on the other, and Baze is close, Chirrut can _feel_ it, both in the desperate hitching ripples around his cock and the flutter of Baze’s fingers against the planes of his chest, the nape of his neck, and in the way Baze’s thrum in the Force blazes like the sun at the apex of the sky.

" _Chirrut_ ," Baze breathes, and it is demand and plea and benediction all rolled into the exaltation of his name, and at it Chirrut groans in reply and shifts just far enough to run one hand across Baze to find the peak of a nipple, the other hand going to Baze’s cock, and it’s only the matter of baring his teeth and rubbing at both while fucking in hard enough to rattle them for Baze to come.

Chirrut bites his own lower lip at it, reopening the cut Baze had given him, and tastes sunwarmed iron like parts of Baze’s kit as Baze fucks himself on Chirrut through his orgasm, hips moving stuttering but insistent until they slow to a throbbing roll, and when Baze stills entirely, Chirrut shifts the hand on his chest to the side of its barrel span, runs it down the length of it from ribcage to waist to hip to flank to feel the way pleasure settles languid in Baze’s core. Chirrut trembles at it and _waits_ , waits until Baze’s thumb comes up to pull gently at the way Chirrut is biting down on himself, coaxing his lip away from his teeth, until Baze replaces it with his thick fingers pressing down on his tongue, until Baze breathes, "Chirrut," all thanks and permission and fondness this time. Chirrut whines, the noise caught straining in his sinuses and barely audible against the pressure of his own pulse, and moves once more, careless in his desperation now and reveling in the way Baze’s walls stutter and jump about Chirrut thrusting into him. Baze’s hands – those broad, hard-callused hands so dear – cradle Chirrut’s face gently, and Chirrut gasps nearly sobbing when he rips himself from Baze’s warmth and strips himself fast and needy in his fist to spill over the skin of Baze’s belly.

Breathing raggedly, Chirrut presses his cock to the crease of where Baze’s thigh meets his hip, along Baze’s slowly-softening length, and covers both with his palm and fingers, thrusting shivering and slow for the shaky tail-end of his high; both of them moan at it, Baze’s a deep rumble in the hollows of his body that Chirrut can feel; Chirrut smears his other hand across the mess they’d both left on Baze, possessively mingling them even in this, then slides it down to feel where Baze clenches futily, so soft and hot around where Chirrut had fucked him open; and Baze lets him, lets him relearn the shape of him undone by Chirrut’s touch, indulges Chirrut in this until he runs out of patience and pulls Chirrut down to lie next to him on the pallet.

They breathe in counterpoint tandem, out for each inhale, regaining themselves, and Chirrut lets his eyes slip closed at the touch of Baze’s knuckles to the crease between his brows, his lips, tangling their hands together after, reminding him. Grounding him. Soon, they’ll rise to reheat what’s left of the water, tease each other with well-worn words as they clean up, bumping elbows and interfering with each other’s attempts to wash. It will be good. Reaffirmation, in its own way, the same as this. Chirrut nips at the tip of Baze’s nose, basks in both the literal and metaphysical warmth of him, worn and content with it down to his bones. Baze, his Baze – and he, Baze’s Chirrut – they’ll rise and wash and sleep together. Wake in the morning together. Live, and keep on living, together, entwined.

Chirrut flattens his hand against Baze’s chest to feel the steady thrum of his heart underneath his fingertips, and smiles, bright, into the dark they share together.

**Author's Note:**

> written and edited to:  
> young the giant - silvertongue  
> florence and the machine - stand by me  
> sun kill moon - heron blue  
> sia & halsey³ - breathe me vs young god (mashup)


End file.
